“I am sure; therefore we will not discuss the point further. Miss Tallant would be a better theme.”
But Arthur Phillips would not talk about Phœbe: and so at last they parted, Lionel shaking Arthur by the hand, and telling him that whatever might come to pass, he should never forget the many happy hours they had passed together, and that he should always treasure his friendship. Arthur was not behindhand in reciprocating Lionel’s kind feelings and expressions, and he stood at the farmer’s gate and watched his aristocratic friend until he had ridden out of sight.
“Now came still evening on, and twilight grey
Had in her sober livery all things clad.”
With all his love of nature, with all his courage, Arthur Phillips felt sadly lonely now, as he stood listening to the last sound of the clatter of Lionel’s horse’s hoofs on the white, hard road.
It seemed as if all things that he loved faded out, or were unattainable. He had formed a warm attachment for Lionel Hammerton, and he would miss his cheery voice in the cathedral close at Severntown. Arthur, indeed, had no other familiar friend. He had followed his art with such singleness of purpose, that his life had been comparatively solitary, and he knew little or nothing of the world and its doings; hence his likes and dislikes were intensified.
For the last two or three years his love for Phœbe Tallant had grown up into a passion which he could not control, and it was only this which disturbed the peaceful course of his life. He had never thought of disclosing his feelings to her. It had been a great relief to him to tell Lionel Hammerton, and more particularly when he had for a moment feared that he had a rival in his friend. Not that Arthur, perhaps, ought to have looked upon any one as a rival, when marriage could hardly be said to have entered his thoughts. To be near his love, to see her often, to speak to her, to dwell on her kind words, that was enough for Arthur. His ambition so far had soared no higher. How could he, a poor, ill-shaped little fellow, with his solitary life, ask a fair, bright thing like Phœbe Tallant to throw in her lot with his—with his, the paid tutor?
No, poor Arthur! he had never arrived at such a daring pitch of passion and presumption, even when he had a large balance at his bankers, with which to meet, in some fashion, the monetary consideration of the wealthy father. If he had known more of the world he might have ventured to make this last cast of the die; but a quiet, retiring, modest, susceptible nature like Arthur’s, wont to brood over all sorts of imaginary nothings, wont to dream and set his thoughts upon the quiet river, to be wafted out far away beyond the world, it was impossible for him to tell Mr. Tallant that he had fallen in love with his daughter.
Once or twice he had thought there was something mean in his position at Barton Hall; that he had taken a mean advantage of his position as tutor to fall in love with his pupil. This idea had taken such fast possession of him at one time that he had almost determined to leave the country; but his will was not strong enough to shut out Phœbe from his sight. He was a prisoner to her charms, and content to remain so. How his excitement had blurted out his captivity to Lionel Hammerton was something that he could hardly understand himself; but he was glad that he had no longer to carry the secret about alone: it was like a divided responsibility now that Lionel knew it.
“And so I am to begin again,” he thought. “Well so be it; maybe this is but a kind act of mercy to give me more to think about. I have been lazy; I will paint a grand picture.”